


Just alike: a sheriarty drabble collection

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets and oneshots under 1000 words from ask memes/prompts on tumblr.<br/>Only Sheriarty (consensual of course) and without other ships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We can never be together

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “We can never be together” kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Angst

They tried. They really tried to make it work.

For a while, they managed to. They spent beautiful months together, days made of secret meetings, of fingers that away from prying eyes could intertwine, of bodies finally able to give and receive that warm that both of them looked for their entire life, of lips that couldn’t stay away from each other, as if every kiss meant “I understand you, I know what you are feeling, you are not alone anymore because I’m here and I’m real”. It was a hidden life, lived in the shadow, but it was beautiful.

They don’t remember exactly when it happened. Maybe it was when their relationship started to taste romantic and domestic, when the nights were spent under the same cover and when the dawn was welcomed with sloppy kisses in bed. Maybe it was when they both started to think it could last forever.

Even if they can’t remember when it started, they will never forget how it felt. Boredom came again, even if the word can’t really describe the feeling. It ate them slowly like a disease and suddenly nothing was interesting anymore. They both ended up craving for something more, something that didn’t exist or that, if it did, it would probably have killed them. What seemed the most beautiful thing just a week before, didn’t held any meaning. It was just boring. Not worthy the time.

They then decided to return to their game, but even that wasn’t able of fascinate and keep them entertained. After all that they experienced together, some clever crime couldn’t bring any stimulation. It was like they already knew and did everything it mattered.

That’s why they agreed to end it.

They aren’t naïve enough to think it will get better, but it’s also true they can’t continue that way. There is nothing more painful to have the only person that can understand you close and knowing it still isn’t enough.

They are at the 221b and Sherlock is sitting in his chair. Jim is on his lap and he’s giving him what will probably be their last kiss. It started slow, sweet and docile but now they are practically devouring each other’s mouth, in a last desperate act. Sherlock’s hand are clenching at Jim’s dark hair, while the Irish’s are on the detective’s face, who has his eyes closed. Sherlock tries to get away, but Jim pulls him back to his lips, because he’s not yet willing to let him go and doesn’t care if his lungs are basically exploding. Somehow, he still wants him on his mouth, even if his brain keeps telling him that it doesn’t really matter. 

After some seconds, he’s forced to move away.

"I’m afraid it’s time to go." says, and his voice cracks like when he was a kid who hasn’t reached the age of ten yet.

"I think so." replies Sherlock, without having the courage to face him.

Jim nods and turns. It’s only when he closes the door behind him that realizes he hasn’t even told him goodbye.


	2. I almost lost you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Angst  
> Trigger Warnings: Attempted suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I almost lost you” kiss

There are days where Jim can’t get out of his bed. He just lays there for hours and stares at the white wall without saying a word. When it happens, Sherlock simply freaks out. He doesn’t know what to do and it terrifies him to death, because he knows and can recognize the pure void in Jim’s dark eyes, because there is there is nothing that drives Sherlock crazy more than not having control over what surrounds him and Jim is so unpredictable that he can’t anticipate his behaviour in any way.

In those days Sherlock simply stays with him. He doesn’t say anything, he just sits next to Jim and touches his hair, without leaving him alone even for a single moment. He’s afraid that just a blink of the eyes could be enough to break that delicate situation. He doesn’t know if his presence truly helps – when Jim starts feeling better they never talk about it – but he likes to think so, because he feels useless and wants to believe they can manage it.

However, Sherlock isn’t always there in time. He has another life with John (and recently Mary). He can’t just tell them “I have to go because my boyfriend, which is also my nemesis, is depressed and I fear for him”. Or maybe he could but he hasn’t found the courage yet.

He’s with the Watsons when the phone rings. Sherlock turns pale in the exact moment he recognize Moran’s number on the display. “I have to go” he simply says, “Mycroft needs me” he adds and then curses under his breath for his stupidity and his ridiculous unbelievable excuse. In his defence he can say that when the sniper calls him, his brain stops functioning rationally.

Sherlock doesn’t have to accept the call to know what Moran wants to tell him. “I haven’t heard Jim in days, do you know something? Is he with you?” he always asks, with a voice that miserably fails to not let his concern show and Sherlock feels crushed by a weight stronger than him, because he didn’t notice it. At that point he always hangs up without answering – what could he ever say? – and rushes to that flat he and Jim share in those small and short moments they can steal from their lives, that house of which only the two of them have the keys. 

When he opens the door his hands shake. It takes a couple of tries to put the key in the keyhole. When he succeeds, he rushes into the bedroom, only to find Jim sitting on the edge of their bed.

He has a gun in his left hand. Way too close to his face. For a second, Sherlock freezes. He can’t help but think of that day of the roof, of the gun that shot that time – is it the same weapon? – of what felt when he thought Jim was really dead. They were already in a relationship (or sort of) back then and Jim didn’t tell him anything about the plan. Sherlock doesn’t like to remember it.

He runs by his side, snatches the gun from his hand – dear god, it’s heavy enough to be load with all the bullets – and pulls out the chamber before throwing the whole thing at the floor. Jim doesn’t even seem to notice or understand what is happening. He looks at him with a look that is confused, surprised and grateful at the same time. Sherlock puts his arms around him and holds him close to his chest.

“I almost lost you” he whispers “I almost lost you” repeats, leaving small soft kisses on his head.

Jim doesn’t replies, but Sherlock can feel him sigh and relax in his arms.


	3. Kiss on the nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Fluff, Domestic, Estabilished Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kiss on the nose

Jim is usually the first to wake up. When Sherlock opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Jim looking at him with a smug smile that disappears the exact moment their lips touch. They would call it a good morning kiss, if only the name didn’t bring that scent of domesticity they both pretend to don’t like. Not all days are like that, though. Sometimes Sherlock wakes up in an empty bed suddenly too big, Jim’s warmth and smell already gone, because apparently being a consulting criminal is a lot of work and Jim can’t afford to spend an entire day sleeping.

There aren’t many peaceful and calm moments in their life. Sherlock is more than okay with it – otherwise he would probably get bored in a few weeks – but he can’t help but love those rare days in which he gets to see Jim asleep. Observing the biggest criminal mind in the world sleep is… fascinating. Sherlock keeps repeating himself that it’s because he needs to get more data about him, but deep down he knows it’s not the real truth. He just likes watching Jim so quiet and relaxed. It warms his heart in a way Sherlock doesn’t like to think about, because he’s afraid he might get to the conclusion he’s seriously in love with him.

He looks so natural. No expensive suits, hair pulled back and those exaggerated facial expressions that characterize Moriarty. Before Sherlock realizes it, his fingers are on Jim’s face. He starts from the forehead only to move down and trace his nose with his fingertips, using a gentleness that rarely he uses with other human beings. He caresses him softly, careful to not wake him up, and reaches the soft lips. Sherlock stops when Jim moves a little. He moans something indecipherable – that sound probably isn’t even a word –, gets closer and then slides his arms around Sherlock’s body, bare skin now touching. Sherlock lays still until he’s sure Jim is still sleeping. Only then he relaxes and holds him with one hand, while the other goes in his hair, playing with his locks absently.

Yes, he likes waking up before Jim, he thinks, giving him a little kiss on the tip of the nose.


	4. Jealous kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Estabilished Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jealous kiss

It’s irrational and doesn’t make any sense, yet it feels real like few other things. It’s a strange mix of anger and pain that hurt him from the inside, a fire that burns slowly and makes impossible to think rationally. Sherlock knows he doesn’t have any motive to be jealous. Jim’s life basically revolves around him, because he’s his “best distraction” and no one could ever mean what Sherlock means for him. He also knows that Jim has a flirtatious personality, that he approaches people that way and he’s aware of the fact that sometimes flirting with someone is necessary – Sherlock can’t help but think of Janine and what he did to get in her office – but he just can’t ignore what happened.

The picture of a smiling Jim that licks his own lips and stays (too) close to another person can’t leave his mind. Oddly enough, he can’t remember the features of the man Jim was talking to. His face is blurry, a mix of hundreds of other faces that belong to anyone that could ever have “something” with Jim. That “something” couldn’t be even remotely comparable to the special bond he and Jim share, but the thought isn’t enough to calm Sherlock down.

The thing that bothers him the most is that Jim acts like nothing happened.

He simply says “hi dear” with a smile on his lips, moves closer to kiss him and Sherlock just can’t take it anymore. He places both his hands on Jim’s hips and pushes him hard, until the criminal’s back hits one of the walls. Jim laughs, clearly aroused and pulls Sherlock closer.

That’s not what Sherlock wanted. The grip on his hips becomes stronger, but it’s only after he opens his mouth that Jim’s face get serious.

“I bet you were having fun.” he says, voice low and sharp as a knife. Any trace of amusement still present in Jim’s features dissolves like smoke in the air.

“I don’t understand.”

“You know what I’m talking about. “ he growls, pushing him harder against the wall “You were in that bar and–“

Jim’s bitter laugh interrupts him. Somehow that sound hurts.

“Holy shit, are you really talking about that?” his voice is not high. It’s a small and soft whisper, but that doesn’t make it less scary. Quite the opposite, Sherlock would have preferred if Jim started shouting, because at that point he could have shouted as well and everything would have been more easy. “I was working. ” Jim adds, looking at him as he couldn’t believe what Sherlock was implying. “You know, sometimes you have to be nice and not act like a complete asshole all the time.”

“Oh, pl–“

“Don’t you trust me?”

The question was so unexpected that Sherlock freeze. For once, he doesn’t know what to say. There is disappointment in Jim’s face and voice. The feeling is clear and evident, without being melodramatically exaggerated. Sherlock can’t understand if Jim is only pretending to be hurt or if he really is. Now that he’s getting to know him better, he thinks is the latter. It creates an unpleasant feeling in his chest.

“It’s not about that.” Of course, seeing him flirt with another man made him jealous and it’s also true that he considered all the worse possibilities, but he never rationally thought that something happened between them. Deep down, he knew that his fantasies weren’t real. “I…” I just can’t stand to watch with someone else and I need to have you all of myself is a little too much even for his standards. Thinking about it now, he realizes how stupid he was. He moves his gaze from Jim’s eyes, like he couldn’t bear to look at him now.

Jim doesn’t say anything and Sherlock can physically feel his eyes on him. Then something change, Jim sighs and holds him, pulling him closer again.

“Like I could ever want anybody else.” Sherlock can’t help but smile. Jim does the same. The detective doesn’t know if he’s simply letting it go or if he really got over it, but he doesn’t care. It’s not important.

“You really are dumb, sometim–”

Jim doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Sherlock is now on his lips and kiss him roughly. He doesn’t want to talk now.


	5. Giggly kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Estabilished Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Giggly kiss

Sherlock laughs and feels like a child again. “Laughs” maybe isn’t the right word, because what comes out of his lips is more a giggle than a proper laugh. It brings to his mind a lot of memories he has archived in his mind palace: the first cookies stolen from the kitchen, the first time he skipped school because nothing was interesting anymore, the first time he smoke a cigarette hiding both from Mycroft and his mother.

Jim is giggling too. Sherlock looks at him and sees himself: different are the eyes that shine with amusement, different is the mouth that laughs, different is the voice, but the thought and the feelings are the same. Jim is his reflected image, equal and opposite at the same time and there is something incredibly satisfying and pleasant in his company, because talking without words and not having to explain everything is beautiful.

“I think I will mess up with his work too.” Jim says, a grin on his lips while he starts browsing the files, strictly top secret of course, that are in the drawers of Mycroft’s desk. They have already moved everything few inches to the left. Sherlock thinks about how his brother will react and can’t help but laugh again, with an even higher giggle.

Jim suddenly changes his mind. He stands up and leans melodramatically to the table, caressing his chin thoughtful.

“I have an even better idea. But I need you, my dear.” The criminal doesn’t wait for an answer. With the grin still on his lips he winks and asks him to get closer. Sherlock understands what Jim has in mind even before he pulls him closer and places his lips on his ear.

“You should fuck me here, on his desk.” Said with such a low and hot voice, the idea sounds definitely more tempting than it should. Sherlock knows that he will agree the exact moment Jim starts talking again. 

“Hard, merciless. Make me beg. He even has cameras…”

“Always the exhibitionist…”

Jim is giggling when Sherlock kisses him.


	6. Far too young to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Angst  
> Trigger Warnings: Major Character Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jim calling up Sherlock and everything sounds normal until Sherlock shows up and Jim's in the middle of an alley, slowly bleeding out, and it's immediately clear that nothing can be done. "You come to see me off, then?" kill me this is horrifying

The first thing he thinks when he sees the name “Jim” appearing on his phone is that there is something wrong, because he and Jim always communicate with messages.

(He changed “Moriarty” in “Jim” months before. He did it without thinking.)

Jim’s voice is calm, relaxed and asks him to meet in an abandoned alley of which he gives him the coordinates. It’s weird. Sherlock can’t think at one single reason why Jim would like to meet him there, but he does what he says without blinking.

(There was something wrong in his voice. Despite the appearances, Sherlock heard something out of place, a off-key note in an otherwise perfect symphony. Months before he wouldn’t have recognized it. It’s only recently that he has started, albeit minimally, to understand Jim Moriarty.)

As soon as he sets foot in the alley he doesn’t notice the small particles of dust from another area, he doesn’t notice the old bloodstains on the asphalt, he doesn’t even notices the rubbish that could tell him everything about what it’s usually done in that corner of London. There is no room for words and deductions to bounce in his mind. There’s just Jim. Jim laying on the ground in a fetal position, a pool of blood beneath him and the happiest expression Sherlock has ever seen on his face.

(It can’t be. It. Can’t. Be. Jim Moriarty can’t die like that.)

For a moment, he doesn’t want to get closer. He feels the urge to get away, as if the distance can make it not real, as if without a proper analysis he can pretend that is not Jim’s blood on the dirty ground. He stays still, his legs trembling and capable of supporting him only because of some sort of miracle and his eyes on Jim, who silently begs him to come closer. Sherlock can’t say no.

“Have you called an ambulance?” he asks, kneeling next to him. He doesn’t try to hide the panic and the despair that make his voice so shaky that he almost doesn’t recognize it. “One of your men? Anyone?” The last word comes out of his mouth higher than he wanted to.

(Not that it matters now. Nothing does.)

Jim keeps staring at him without moving his eyes even for a moment. His lips raise up in a smile that he has seen before when the two of them were alone together, when for the first time Sherlock admitted he needed Jim and stretched his arm to his face. He caressed him gently, fingertips barely touching his soft skin. That’s how everything begun.

“You know it would be useless.”

“Mayb–“

“Even if you are right I will stay in bed for months. It would kill me.” The efforts made to articulate a sentence so long makes Jim cough up blood. Yet all Sherlock can’t think is that it’s not fair. It’s not fair because yes, it would kill Jim but at the same time he would make Sherlock feel better and in his selfishness and self-obsession that’s all the detective can think about. He’s reaching for his phone when Jim starts talking again. “Don’t disappoint me now, Sherlock.”

Don’t disappoint me Jim says and Sherlock stops breathing. He wants to cry. He wants to feel warm tears falling on his face and cry his eyes out and hold Jim’s body in his arms and shout that he can’t leave him, not now that they have finally found each other, not in that way. He wants to but he can’t. He can’t disappoint Jim right before his death. “Please…” Jim adds, with a voice so weak and pleasing to make him want to throw up, “Please” he repeats, even if talking is difficult to him now.

(Please, don’t leave me alone Jim says and Sherlock thinks it’s ironic, because it’s exactly what his mind is screaming too. They truly are alike, after all.)

Sherlock smiles at him and holds him gently. He caresses his hair and doesn’t move his gaze from him, even if his eyes are wet with tears that silently streams down his cheeks.

For some reason, Sherlock always thought he would have been the one to kill Jim. It was an idea born the exact moment he found out Jim existed. It was simply logic. There was also something comforting in knowing to be the only one capable of ending their game that made him feel in control.

(Game isn’t the right word, their relationship is something more, so beautiful and unique that can’t be described with a word so simply and ordinary.)

Sherlock feels like he has to say something, even if it doesn’t know exactly what.

It doesn’t matter anymore. Jim’s body gets cold in his arms.

(“I’m sorry”, “I love you”, “I hate you”, “Please don’t leave me”, “I don’t want to be alone again”)


	7. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Fluff, Domestic, Estabilished Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”

London looks different when covered in snow. The buzz of modern life slows down, softened by the white cloak that now covers roofs and streets, bringing the whole town in a sort of parallel universe where hurry doesn’t exist. It’s an illusion, something that isn’t and will never be real – no one is more aware than Jim Moriarty of the dirty hot heart of London – but it’s nice to linger in that image, at least once in a while. 

Jim likes snow. It’s white and delicate, yet when lit by the sun it can almost blind, turning a colour usually associated with purity and chastity into something violent. Soft and cold at the same time, snow is an oxymoron, a set of contradictions capable of somehow stimulate his interest. He has to use it in one of his crimes, Jim thinks idly, a little smile on his lips. He has always loved the visual contrast between snow and blood. 

Sherlock doesn’t pay much attention either to him or to the weather. He walks undaunted, oblivious to the snow that adorns the city, blind to the beauty Jim is instead able to grasp. Sherlock’s indifference makes Jim want to act, to move something in that man always serious and imperturbable because, even if Sherlock doesn’t know, Jim loves when his beautiful face becomes expressive and shows his emotions. Hate, love, pain, pleasure, annoyance, joy; it doesn’t really matter. Everything is better than indifference.  
Sherlock is walking and looking in front of him when Jim picks up a handful of snow in his bare hand. His delicate skin reddens quickly and even if the cold is sharp as a thousand pins, Jim finds the feeling somehow enjoyable. It makes him smile. 

The next step is intuitive and logical; the snowball hits Sherlock right in the face just as the detective was turning to ask for explanations. It takes Sherlock by surprise, leaving him with that surprised – and somewhat silly – expression that often adorns his features when something is out of his understanding and Jim simply laughs. The sound that leaves his lips is clear and full of joy, is the laughter of a child and it condenses immediately in a little cloud that becomes the symbol of that peace and happiness that Jim can rarely feel. Hitting Sherlock with a snowball was one of the best decisions he made.

Sherlock blushes – most because of embarrassment – and with quick and firm steps approaches and grabs Jim by the collar of his jacket. He’s using more strength that is necessary. 

It’s too late to move when Jim notices the handful of fresh snow in Sherlock’s right hand.  
“Don’t. Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes.” He’s trying to sound menacing, but for some reason all he wants to do is laugh. “I’m going to kill you” he adds giggling and Sherlock’s lips curl in a grin. “I’m serio-“ 

He doesn’t get to finish. Snow hits him while he still has his mouth open. Cold is all he feels. Snowflakes rolls down his neck, they wet his clothes and make their way thought the several layer of fabric until they reach the skin, making Jim shiver.

Sherlock laughs. 

His laughter is so pure, warm and beautiful that for a moment Jim forgets the snow.


	8. Did you really just crack a smile for me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: University AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”  
> AU: Unilock.

Sharp cheekbones, beautiful blue eyes, fit body, nice ass and dark curls that make him almost look like a Greek statue; it’s no surprise that, in the last years, Sherlock has drawn upon himself the eyes of both men and women. Sex and romanticism may be two concepts foreign to him, but Sherlock isn’t stupid or blind and he’s perfectly aware of his looks and the effect he has on those around him. 

( Unfortunately, there aren’t many people who appreciate him after he has opened his mouth. They don’t exist at all, actually. Sherlock learnt that people don’t like to be insulted only because of assumptions that, no matter how right they can be, are made by a stranger who pretend to know their entire life. Not that Sherlock particularly cares, of course. He doesn’t want to change his manners to be accepted. )

James Moriarty is one of many people who have a crush on him. 

Jim – that’s how he likes to be called – is an Irish boy in his biochemistry class. He has the potential to be different from those around him: he’s brilliant, clever, has a sense of humour dark enough to be appreciated by Sherlock, he questions the competence of their professors and Sherlock could be interested in knowing him better, if only Jim’s intentions weren’t so obvious. 

Jim is shameless. He always stares at him, even when Sherlock catches his gaze. He never takes place in the chair – always empty – next to Sherlock’s, but he never sits too far away either. He even follows him to the coffee machine: every time Sherlock is waiting for his daily dose of caffeine, Jim is not far. Oddly enough, he never tried to actually speak to him, despite not being shy at all. 

It doesn’t make sense: all Jim does is staring at him and smiling like he knows exactly when the world is going to end.  
It’s kinda annoying. 

Maybe that's why he can’t get him out of his mind.

***

The first time Jim speaks to him, he uses the oldest excuse in the world. Sherlock knows that he shouldn’t be disappointed, but for some reason he is. 

"Do you have a light?" Jim simply asks, a grin on his lips and a cigarette between his fingers. His hair is pulled back and, when he approaches him, Sherlock can smell the gel. 

“Why did you wait so long?” Despite the hostile voice, Sherlock pulls out his lighter for his jeans pocket. Their fingers touch when he offers him the small object. The touch is light, delicate as the flutter of a butterfly, a small and shy whisper that is however enough to make Sherlock feel the softness of Jim’s skin. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. 

"You had the face of someone who didn’t want to be bothered." Jim lights his cigarette without breaking eye contact. “Why do you ask? Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

"Then I guess you don’t want to go out on a date with me." Sherlock doesn’t even have the time to reply – of course he doesn’t want to spend time with him, no matter how clever Jim during their classes –, because Jim keeps talking, moving even closer. "Too bad..." he stops. A puff of smoke comes out his lips and he slips his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "I have the key to the chem lab, I thought we could take a look. You know, without people telling us what to do.”

Oh. That’s interesting. The idea of having a laboratory all for himself is exciting, but the knowledge of doing something forbidden that could put them in real troubles adds an extra touch that instantly speeds up the beating of his heart, giving him that dose of danger and adrenaline that Sherlock craves so desperately in life. 

“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” Jim's voice brings him back to reality. He didn’t know he was smiling. He decides to not hide it. Jim has pleasantly surprised him, Sherlock thinks he can give him a little smile. At least this time. 

“That doesn’t mean you’ll have your date.” 

Jim laughs, throws the cigarette to the ground and moves even closer. His lips are so close to Sherlock’s ear that he can feel his hot breath on his skin. He shivers. 

“Honey, what do you think this is?”


	9. You weren't supposed to leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for sheriarty week day one: post!reichenbach

When Jim holds out his hand, his fingers tremble slightly.  
It’s an involuntary and imperceptible movement, something so insignificant that even Sherlock, who always notice everything, miss. He just shakes the hand of the man who stands right in front of him and doing so he can’t help but be surprised of how slowly Jim reciprocates the gesture: his touch is light and delicate, as if an excessive force could destroy the moment he has been waiting for a lifetime.

Jim’s skin is soft. It’s so soft that Sherlock finds himself stroking it with his thumb, without being really aware. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice it. Or maybe it’s because he’s too busy looking at his face, trying to read in it something that will explain the nature of the handshake: the gaze slips on his dark eyes – now they are warm and golden because of the light, Sherlock never noticed it before – and on the lips open in a smile that his somehow different from the ones Sherlock is used to see. 

Anyway, he doesn’t notice it. It’s only when Jim tightens the grip and pulls him toward himself that Sherlock realizes he’s holding his right hand. It’s too late now. 

Sherlock would like to open his eyes and stop the flow of memories that overwhelmingly is taking over his mind, but it’s all so fast and intense that he can’t do anything but stand there and watch, viewer of a scene that keeps repeating itself every time he closes his eyes.  
The gun shines only for a moment in Jim’s hand before disappearing in his mouth. There is a “bang” and a moment later the brightest mind that Sherlock has ever had the pleasure of meeting is on the cold ground. It makes him sick. All that potential wasted…

It takes a few seconds to return to reality. The bedroom is starting to become real: Sherlock’s gaze distractedly slips on the horrid wallpaper and paintings that adorn the wall, then on the wardrobe half empty – almost all his clothes are packed in a suitcase, in case Mycroft decides to make him move away without warning – and the small bedside table. As soon as his eyes fall on the files on it, Sherlock looks away, his right hand dangling inert from the edge of the bed.  
He can still feel the touch of Jim’s ghost finger on his skin, but the hold now is anything but delicate. 

It makes breathing difficult.

“He died because I shook his hand”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his dark curls and sitting up. Thinking about it now, Jim’s suicidal desire was so obvious that Sherlock can’t understand how he didn’t notice it before. He would have killed himself anyway. It’s not his fault. 

Sherlock puts all the blame on Jim because he doesn’t want the guilt to corrode him from the inside. 

“He died because I shook his hand”

It would be easier to accept if only he had wanted Jim dead from the beginning. But he didn’t. He wanted to beat him, to show his superior brain and perhaps lock him somewhere. Jim later would have escaped and everything would be back to normal. New cases, new killings, new cases, he would have continued to entertain and amuse him, in a dance Sherlock thought would last until the end of the world.

“He died because I shook his hand”

James Moriarty died and Sherlock can’t do much about it. The dead can’t come back to life, not when they shot themselves in the mouth right before your eyes, at least. Avoiding his own responsibility and not taking the blame doesn’t help much now. 

There had been moments when he wondered if their special bond could have been changed into something different, something more physical and somehow similar to a romantic relationship. It wouldn’t be less profound though. Nothing can be more intimate the knowledge that you have found your equal. They could have it all together. On the lips Sherlock feels the bitter taste of a future that won’t happen. He swallows hard, trying to send away the lump that he still feels in the back of the throat.

The world without Moriarty is a better place. But Sherlock never cared much about the world. 

“You were the best distraction. And now I don’t even have you.”

For the second time his gaze meets the pile of documents. He decides to browse through them: Sherlock stretches and grabs them, reading the (few) information collected about Moriarty’s criminal network. His lips curl in a bitter smile. 

James is dead and gone forever, but Moriarty is still there, fragmented into a world of crime and corruption.

The game is not over yet.


	10. Bad intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Established Relationship, NSFW, submissive Jim Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for sheriarty week day four: smut.  
> Based on xojim.tumblr.com headcanon!

Being perfectly still and impassive to what happens around him is something that Jim Moriarty has learned long time ago. He was little more than a boy when he realized that going in a mental space isolated from the outside world is an optimal solution to several problems. Thinking rationally, being in control of his body and emotions, deciding exactly how much and what to show of himself are also qualities necessary to do his job. It’s not just self-control though, it’s something more, something that only few are capable of. It’s the ability of being able to dissociate himself from his body. He couldn’t be the brilliant scary criminal mastermind he is if he wasn’t able to do it.  

When he has to use a fake identity he can completely undress himself of his personality and become someone else. When he’s tortured for days he’s able to “leave” his body and enter an undefined limbo in which only emptiness and darkness exist.

Yet, when Sherlock’s foot moves gentle on his erection constrained into his Armani suit, Jim just can’t remain impassive. He moves in his chair, changing slightly his position every ten seconds, teeth biting his lower lip when the pace gets faster and a slight redness on his face. If only they were at home, Jim would swallow his pride and sit on Sherlock’s lap, grinding his hips and muttering obscenities into the detective’s ear.

But they are in public.

Of course Sherlock has to tease him while they are at a fucking fancy _restaurant_ , the kind of place that has expensive dishes and well-dressed waiters. And of course he has to look at him with those beautiful piercing blue eyes and lick his lips while doing so. _Of course._

“Jim? Is something wrong?”

Sherlock leans towards him and _oh_ , his voice is so soft and sweet and he almost sounds like a perfect boyfriend, but his eyes and lips are telling a completely different story. All Jim would like to do is erasing that half grin on his face. Having that beautiful mouth on his. Feeling it move on his neck, teeth biting into the flesh hard enough to draw blood and _fuck–_ he shouldn’t think of that right now.

It’s hard to not let the course of his thoughts go. Especially when Sherlock is looking at him like _that_ and his gaze is so intense that Jim feels under observation, a sample ready to be analysed and dissected in its entirety. It shouldn’t turn him on that much, but somehow it does. Sherlock is fully aware of the effect he has on him, he knows that under his lips and hands – and well, feet in this case – James Moriarty lose every shred of the composure and Jim knows it drives the detective crazy.

Sherlock has always been a control freak. He needs to know exactly what is happening and how, he needs to be able to predict the outcomes of his own actions as much as those of the people around him. Controlling the man who by definition knows no limits and rules stimulate both his body and his mind. Jim can’t help but wonder if Sherlock has an erection too. It’s likely.

“Well, since you don’t answer…” He stares a little more before moving his gaze on the nearest waitress, a pretty girl with big brown eyes and blond hair, and making a gesture.  “... we can order something to drink.”

The woman has probably no idea what’s going on.

“Can I take your order?”

Sherlock smiles and what is on lips is the same cheerful expression that he puts on every time he has to pretend to be a nice person. It’s fake and constructed and it makes Jim roll his eyes most times, but people always like it.

Without giving him a second look, Sherlock answers and makes the name of a French wine that rings a bell in Jim’s brain. The criminal curses under his breath while he recalls a night of few weeks before. The Parisian breeze coming through the open window to stroke their bare skin, the soft sheets of an expensive hotel room under their bodies, red wine on Sherlock’s pale abdomen and Jim bent to lick it off. _Damn._

Sherlock – _that fucking asshole_ – presses harder on his erection. He’s still talking to the waitress, who wrote their order down and settled a curl behind her ear, when he starts stroking him again and _oh,_ it feels so nice and the friction on his crotch is so pleasant that Jim is no longer able to resist. He pathetically stains his trousers and stifles a groan in his throat.

“Is… Is everything all right?” La woman, worried, turns to him.

“He just isn’t feeling that well tonight.” Charming and suave, Sherlock’s voice replies. Apparently satisfied with the answer, the girl goes away and Jim is again the object of the detective’s attention. He has that satisfied grin on his lips again and he has moved his foot away.

Jim has to make him pay and take is revenge somehow, but all the ideas that come to his mind would probably make him hard again and it’s really not the takes. He will take them in consideration again later in the car, when Sebastian will pick them from the restaurant and will drive all the way trying to ignore the ambiguous sounds from the rear seats. He smirks at the thought.

“I hate you.” Jim whispers, leaning back on his chair with eyes narrowed. He’s still panting a little.

“Well, I hated that suit.”


	11. Far far away...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Royality AU, Lord Sherlock

Taxes, peasants’ complaints, problems with the near kingdoms, men inside his own castle that can’t wait to stab him in the back. Boring. Incredibly and utterly boring. They told him that heavy is the head that wears the crown, that he would be forced to make difficult decisions that would have taken away both his sleep and appetite, but nothing of that happened. All lies. The only thing Sherlock has felt since he became Lord is a feeling of emptiness right in the chest, a lack of emotions – of emotions, of excitement, of life in its primitive stage,  _of all that makes a man’s heart beat_ – thattakes his breath away and makes living difficult. More the once he sat on the window of his huge bedroom, legs dangling in the void and wondering if he should jump and end everything forever. The only thing that really stopped him is that he might survive the fall.

His brother Mycroft, who died ten years before of illness, would have enjoyed it. But not him. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t made to reign.

“My Lord? There is a man who wants to talk to you.” The voice of Lestrade, one of his most loyal knights, distracts him from his train of thoughts. Sherlock doesn’t even bother to look at him: he simply rolls his eyes and sighs – how many time he has done it in that day only? – doing a little gesture with his hands.

Whatever the man has to say, it can’t bore him more of that awful routine.

A lot can be told by how a person dresses and looks. Judge a book by its cover is wrong and can lead to errors due to ingenuity and rush, but don’t pay attention to the clothes a man wears is just as wrong. Especially if the clothes in question are unusual, made of fine fabrics from distant lands and dyed black in order to mask their original bright colours. Dark colours make easier to go unnoticed.

“My Lord.” The black-haired man bows deeply but his clothes don’t touch the floor. Another person could have taken it as a sign of disrespect. Sherlock never cared about that sort of formalities though. “I’m James Moriarty, at your service.”

The name rings a bell in his mind. When James comes closer and a glimmer of light catches Sherlock’s glance: on his chest there is a silver brooch with the shape of a magpie.  _Oh. Maybe it won’t be boring._

“I know who you are.” Sherlock shifts in the throne, adjusting slightly his posture. “The adviser of Lord Magnussen.”

“Honoured that you have heard of me, my Lord.” A soft accent, more pleasant than Sherlock is willing to admit, distorts his words just slightly.

“I should execute you in public.” James doesn’t even blink. If he’s intimidated he doesn’t show it. “You’re on the side of the enemy.” Sherlock’s low voice echoes in the room only to disappear in a complete silence few moments later.

Everything seems to freeze. No noise affects the peace, the clock seems to have stopped, trapping that bubble of space and time inside a sculpture made with the finest crystal. For a spit second, Sherlock considers it almost possible. Silence dissolves like smoke on a windy day when James makes a small step forward.

“You won’t.” He simply replies, lips lifted in a grin that somehow reminds Sherlock of a big cat. “Also, I am no longer working for him, my Lord.”

An oath is forever. There isn’t such thing as “changing job”: only death can break a man’s word. Sherlock knows that he should be disgusted with such behaviour, but for some reason disgust is the last thing present in him. What he feels is curiosity, pure and simple interest in what convinced Moriarty to, putting it on his terms, stop working for Lord Magnussen.

“He didn’t listen to my advices, a real shame… I had no choice but leave” Jim’s dark eyes, deep as a well and black as a night without moon, are on him. They make Sherlock feel somehow exposed and vulnerable. He doesn’t like it, no matter how interesting James is. "If he wants his people to rebel it’s not my problem, but he will not drag me into his stupidity.” He concludes, twisting his lips in an exaggerated disgusted grimace.

"What are you here for?”

“I believe, my Lord, that you are far cleverer.” The smile on his face becomes more gentle and kind, it has the taste of the honey of flatters. "I’m here to offer my services. I could be useful. ”

“Maybe.”

Objectively speaking, James might be right. His reputation precedes him – Moriarty is said to have eyes and ears everywhere, to know every secret of every lord and, despite the poor origins, to have a power that definitely isn’t irrelevant – but one doesn’t have to be particularly bright to understand the risks of taking such a man in his own castle.

“I cannot, however, trust a person who has left his lord when he most need–“

“It’s not my fault he acted like an idiot.” Jim stops him. “I put so much more hope in you.”

No one ever dared to interrupt him. Sherlock blinks a few times, not sure if he should be offended – because yes, a part of his infinite and majestic pride feels injured – or if he should be intrigued by such an attitude. James has been there for less than five minutes and he already confused him.

“I could have you executed only for your attitude toward me.”

“As I said before, you won’t. We both know it.”

The last sentence makes Sherlock almost want to kill him just to prove he’s wrong. Almost. Ruining a situation so potentially interesting with something as trivial as blood would be shame.

"I can’t trust you anyway.” Sherlock announces, standing up from his throne and approaching James.

"If I can say so, my Lord, it’s a great decision.”

"Why should I allow you under my roof and let you whisper in my ear?”

The grin on his lips now reminds Sherlock of something feral and cruel. He never felt more attracted to someone in his entire life.

"Because you don’t trust me and don’t know what his my goal. Because you stood up and now we are closer. Because you are bored and need a distraction and  _oh”_ Jim stops and licks his lower lip“believe me when I say that trying to understand me will be the best distraction of your entire life.”


	12. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Fluff, Estabilished Relationship

Sherlock’s fingers are somehow lazy when they brush against his skin.

Delicate and soft, the fingertips move on his back, memorize every mole and draw abstract figures that have no meaning, because there aren’t any hidden messages or puzzles to solve, not now. They aren’t playing. They aren’t teasing each other with sharp words and they aren’t running all over the city because of a game that only they can understand: after violently ripping their clothes off and venting the frustration in bed they can finally enjoy that sweetness that they both think don’t really deserve. 

There is a smile on Jim’s lips when they touch Sherlock’s neck. It’s genuine and doesn’t have any hidden motives, it’s a smile that Jim felt on his lips decades ago, that one time his mother gave him his first astronomy book and then again, when he saw Carl’s dead body sink into the water. 

He leaves a chaste kiss there where he can feel Sherlock’s pulse and on the tip of his tongue there is the warm taste of life and for some reason he wants to laugh, because it’s simply beautiful. He lets out a giggle. 

He has never been so happy in his life. He knows that is the same for Sherlock because when he moves slightly he can see in his eyes a genuine affection that isn’t hidden by the omnipresent veil of cynicism and superiority. 

Sherlock pulls him for a kiss and Jim sighs when their mouths touch.

It is a domestic and quiet situation that collides with their personalities. It’s a stolen moment that is special mainly because of its rarity, because if there is something that could ever destroy the complex relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty is the perspective of an ordinary life dictated by routine and habit.

“I think …” Sherlock runs his hand on her hip. He touches him like he’s a precious crystal statue that could break at any time and it’s weird, because until a few minutes before Sherlock was pressing his fingers in the same spot to cause pain and cover him in bruises. 

“I think …” He repeats, frowning. Jim has to force back a chuckle because really, he doesn’t want to rush anything, but he finds Sherlock adorable. 

“I think I could get used to all this.”

It’s a confession whispered under his breath, so dim and delicate that could get lost even in the absolute silence of the bedroom, yet manages to upset Jim. He stares at Sherlock for two good seconds before answering.

“Me too.”

It is not an “I love you”, but it’s the closest thing they could ever have.


	13. Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: NSFW, sub!Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: [text] Thanks to you, the new neighbours now know my name. SH

**_[text] Thanks to you, the new neighbours now know my name. SH_ **

For a moment, Jim thinks he’s only imagining the message.

He blinks a couple of times, dark eyes that run on the single line of text over and over, until the words lose any meaning and he doesn’t know what he’s staring at anymore. Usually, is Jim who has to take the first step. He’s the one who disturb Sherlock’s daily life, breaking the routine that makes the detective’s eyes a little more tired and his heart a little more heavy. This time however, not only Sherlock texted him first, but he did it with a message that is unmistakably sexual. It’s really unusual, even if in a good way.

Jim smiles, a hint of laughter in the corners of the lips. The fingers move fast on the screen.

**_[text] you are my boyfriend and yet you still end your texts with your name, it’s incredibly amusing._ **

He doesn’t need to use the cameras installed at 221b to see Sherlock’s frown, a childish annoyance in the way he curls his lips in a pout that only the cold light of the phone’s display can see. It’s an image so vivid and realistic, so simple and somehow “ordinary” that Jim can’t help but laugh. The sound escapes his lips and high and genuine floats in the air of a flat that suddenly seems a little too quiet.

He keeps typing.

**_[text] don’t worry honey, i know it’s you, i only scream your name in bed ;)_ **

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer.

**_[text] I know._ **

Jim wonders if Sherlock’s fingers are trembling, if moving on the screen they are so quick that they press the wrong letter and make mistakes that are automatically corrected by the phone. He wonders if in him there is that energy that light him up every time they meet, that spark that shines behind eyes of ice even in situations that look simple and ordinary, because nothing between them is really “ordinary”.

**_[text] you should be flattered though. It means you are good. REALLY good._ **

The fingers stop mid-air, motionless.

He thinks of Sherlock, of long fingers that run on his body, alternating gentle and chaste touches, light as a feather that vibrates in the hair, with scratches and grips so tight that leave bruises on the skin, marks that Jim touches absently in the days following. He thinks of soft lips clashing with his. He thinks of the way Sherlock fuck him, frustrated and somehow angry; he thinks of the sound of his hips against him and the obscene moans and words that fill the bedroom.

He swallows hard.

**_[text] do you want me to be quieter?_ **

**_[text] I haven’t said that._ **

**_[text] so why are you complaining? you don’t even live here, so it’s not like you have to see my new neighbours all the time…_ **

**_[text] I’m not. I was just stating a fact._ **

Jim raises an eyebrow, amused.

**_[text] But today your lovely neighbour just came to 221b because “I need you to solve a case. Someone keeps screaming your name and they need to stop”_**.

He laughs heartily for the second time in few minutes, like he can do only when Sherlock is involved, when there aren’t any scripts to recite or facades to maintain.

**_[text] im making you famous._ **

Sure, the visibility he’s giving him it’s not the one he wants, but still…

**_[text] what did johnny boy say?_ **

**_[text] Nothing. He was pretty shocked but I told him that she probably had a dream or an hallucination or whatever._ **

**_[text] did he believe it? lmao_ **

**_[text] He was sceptical and he finds it unlikely. But at the same time, he finds even more weird the thought of me having sex._ **

_“Well, he’s missing out”_ it’s the only thing he manage to think as he types the answer.

**_[text] so we are good. why did you text me then? you just missed me? <3_ **

**_[text] No. I wanted to tell you something._ **

For the second time that day, Jim needs to reread the text more than once to be sure it’s real.

**_[text] Next time, you will be wearing a gag._ **

*********

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes  is Sherlock’s smile. It’s so sharp that, for a second, Jim thinks that a kiss could cut him.

He wants those lips on his body, he wants to feel his teeth clench with enough strength to break the top layers of skin, he wants –  _no, he needs_  – to feel pain through his entire being like a rush of pure electricity. He tries to move forward, but the rope tied around his wrists stops him.

“Be a good boy.”

Sherlock’s voice, hoarse and hot against his ear, is followed by a small chaste kiss that couldn’t look more out of place. Sherlock kisses him again, a soft brush of lips that makes him even more impatient than before, and Jim rocks his hips towards those violinist fingers that seem to touch everywhere except where he really wants.

“Don’t move.”

Sherlock says, putting his free hand on his chest and pressing down.

The fingers inside him spread and go deeper and  _oh_ , it’s so beautiful and intense that Jim closes his eyes again, until there are bright spots on the back of his eyelids that like stars dance in the darkness and his entire body starts shaking.

Sherlock pulls his fingers out  just before Jim reaches his climax. Once again.

Jim would beg him to let him come, if only he wasn’t wearing a gag ball.


	14. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way you said “I love you.“ + A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Fluff, Domestic, Estabilished Relationship

When John asked him what good he sees in Moriarty – “Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal of the whole country, the man who, in case you forgotten, almost blew me up” he added, tightened jaw and voice unable to hide his anger – Sherlock replied without thinking twice.

“I don’t see any good in him.” He smiled in that way that annoys John and amuses Jim. “I like him because he’s interesting. He’s different.” Like me, he almost said, catching himself at the last minute and avoiding that way a discussion he wasn’t in the mood to start.

And it’s true. He likes Jim because he’s unpredictable, because their dates always include at least one murder, because their idea of dirty talking is praising each other’s brains before their cocks, because he can understand him without talking and when the world is suffocating and too small he’s there, fingers tracing patterns on his skin and big dark eyes somehow capable of making him feel less alone. He likes Jim because there is never a puzzled or judging look on his face, because everything is a challenge he isn’t sure to win, because he never has to worry about being “decent”, whatever decent even means.

He likes Jim because he doesn’t send dull bouquets of red roses. 

Or at least that’s what he thought.

He spent three whole days trying to figure out the mystery behind the flowers. Three whole days locked in the lab, running all the possible tests only to find himself even more confused and without clues. Three whole days after which he had to admit his defeat. 

“Sherlock, they are just flowers. No hidden meanings.”

Jim tilts his head in a way that reminds Sherlock of a puppy, which is weird since he’s well… a serial killer and all that stuff.

“Then _why_?”

“ _Why_?”

He blinks a couple times, stepping closer and Sherlock suddenly feels like he’s a child who fails to grasp a basic concept, because Jim raises his eyebrow and curls his lips in the most annoying grin ever, the kind of smile that Sherlock wants to bite off until he can taste the blood.

“Because I love you.”

They say your world freezes once you hear The Words. They say your heart stop beating and your lungs stop working because nothing for your body is more important than the three words everyone is obsessed with.

Sherlock thinks it’s bullshit.

Not because it’s scientifically inaccurate but because it isn’t true, not even in its metaphorical sense. 

They are just words, sounds that don’t mean anything at all. Jim doesn’t love him, not by the actual definition of the word “love” at least, he’s just being an annoying asshole and okay, _maybe – **maybe** –_ his heart is beating a little faster and there is an embarrassed laugh stuck in the back of his throat but it’s still bullshit. 

“You are just trying to get into my pants.”

Jim laughs and gets closer. He places his hands on his hips, fingers playing with the belt.

“I don’t need to speak to do that.”

Sherlock kisses him before he can add anything else. It’s simpler that way. 


	15. Always here, always together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way you said “I love you.“: Before we jump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Fix-it for TAB, angst

Last time, the sky was bright. It wasn't particularly hot, but the coat felt heavy and uncomfortable, their hands were warm when they touched and Jim's eyes were golden and alive and a little too human to belong to the Devil.

This time it's dark. It's not late in the day, even if it could very well be. The surrounding doesn't offer any indication of the time, there is nothing but sharp rocks that stand as far as the eye go and the roar of the waterfall, so loud that Sherlock can't even count his own heartbeats to keep track of the seconds. Not that it really matters right now, of course. Nothing does.

"This is so melodramatic."

Jim's eyes are almost black but the smile on his lips contains the warmth that isn't in his irises. He seems happy – as happy as a man without half of his skull can be, at least – and it makes Sherlock uncomfortable because he doesn't feel the same, because while he's sure of his decision, he wouldn't have made it otherwise, a needle in his forearm wasn't exactly how he wanted to go off.

Sherlock sighs, moves his gaze on the cliff.

"You are the one to talk."

"Darling, I haven't said I don't like it."

Another difference is they are completely alone now. There is no audience, no big brother ready with a plan to save his ass (for the umpteenth time). There isn't even John, there aren't his tears and his desperate tries; there are only him and Jim and a voice in his head, a voice as sweet as honey that flows over his skin with its Irish accent like a caress, tells him it's how it should be. They are alone and together.

Jim is in no hurry. He keeps smiling, dangles his left foot over the edge. He gives him his attention again only when Sherlock slips an arm around his waist, holding to those different and unfamiliar clothes – maybe he exaggerated, maybe it's all a little too dramatic – and bringing him closer.

Even if his coat is wet, his body is warm.

Sherlock can't help but wonder how it would have been to embrace the real Jim.

"Sure?"

Jim asks and before he has finished speaking his outlines become shaky. Sherlock blinks twice. The world become clear and his cheeks wet.

"Sure."

"I love you."

It sounds weird and out of place, because Jim would have never said that, because the person he's holding is just a copy of Moriarty, a not-too-successful attempt made by his mind to create the only man truly capable of understanding him, an image that even if it's accurate at a first glance lacks that "something" that Sherlock has never been able to define.

Yet, it doesn't matter. Not really.

When he closes his eyes and Jim's mouth is soft again his, Jim feels more real than ever.

They jump with their lips still locked.


	16. Sheriarty Challenge: inclement weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I can do way better but I wanted to write something because I kinda have a writing block. It's... I don't know just a bitter "Sherlock doesn't deserve Jim and Jim is frustrated" fic I guess.

It's not like Jim Moriarty hates rainy days.

Quite the opposite, actually. Sometimes he spends entire nights sitting cross-legged on the roof of one of the buildings he owns, eyes closed and face up to the sky as the storm breaks down around him, slamming windows that people with little to no conscious have forgotten to close. He stays there for hours, wrapped in lightweight clothes, with a sigh on his lips and goose bumps caused by the cold drops that, small and fast like knife stabs, get through the thin layers of cotton. 

When he stands up he has a principle of fever and his legs feel numb, but the gun he brought with him did not shoot. It's incredible how something ordinary and meaningless like rain, a trivial and inevitable meteorological event, is capable of reminding him what it means to be alive and feel **_something_**.

So no, Jim Moriarty doesn't hate rainy days.

What he hates is being taken aback; having to carry an umbrella that is useless because of the wind and ending up completely wet, water dripping from one of the suits he likes the most, the night blue Westwood he wore that day at the pool.  What he hates is having to run – it's pathetic and stupid, Gaelic cursing slip away from his tongue and accompany the rhythmic noise of his Italian shoes on the pavement – all the way home.

He opens the door of his flat with messy hair, an already unbuttoned shirt, the need of a shower and pure annoyance on his face.

The view that appears before his eyes makes everything better, though. Jim even forgets his soaking wet Westwood. 

Sherlock Holmes, on his couch. Sherlock Holmes, with wet hair – his curls are more defined than usual, Jim wants to touch them, wrap them around his fingers, pull them with enough strength to make Sherlock scream his name – and cupid bow lips open in that pleased half-smile that Jim loves and hates in equal measure.

It's not difficult to read his gaze. He wants attention, like a dog waiting for a pat on the head, Sherlock expects praise for finding out one of the many flats Jim owns in London.

If only he were fully clothed, Jim would have ignored him and sit at his desk, sending emails without giving him attention for hours, just for the fun of having him moving nervously on the couch and glancing at him like a little boy with his crush.

But Sherlock is (almost) fully naked, Jim waited months for this moment and his big dark eyes – the pupils are dilated now, Sherlock surely has noticed it – run on his bare chest like the hand of a lover. They stop on the protruding hip bones, only to lower a little and meet the towel that Jim is now hating how he hated few other things in his life.

"I was near your flat when the storm started and I desperately needed a shower."

_Right, the shower. He has to take one too. He's soaking wet._

"You don't mind, do you?" Sherlock continues, voice now low and full of that false innocence that looks so good on him. "I hope I didn't mess with your plans."

_Ah, here it is again._ _The desperate loneliness in his words._

Jim looks up at Sherlock's face, stares straight in his eyes to figure out the cause behind the sudden visit, because there must be one, because he reaches out for him only when everybody else turns their backs. Whatever it is, it probably has to do something with John.

_Johnny-boy._ He wishes he could kill him. He technically could, but that would put an end to the weird frustrating relationship he and Sherlock have and... well, it's just not worthy. John Watson is not worth it.

The thought still irritates him, though. If just a minute before Sherlock was a wonderful vision right from his dreams, now it's hard to just look at him. Jim wants him gone. At least for five minutes, at least now that he feels like what, a replacement? A substitute of drugs?

"Actually, I do mind."

Sherlock's irises light up with the spark that precedes every challenge and confrontation, the spark they both look in one another. It lasts only a moment. It goes away as soon as Jim walks away to the bathroom.

"Honey, you should have waited and taken a shower with me."

With a wink, Jim closes the door behind him.

If, after the shower, Sherlock will still be there, perhaps he'll give him what he wants.


End file.
